An Elf at a Dwarven Funeral

I once attended a Dwarven funeral at which an Elf had been asked to speak, which was already unusual enough to attract attention. The deceased had been a surface engineer who had worked for nearly a century alongside an Elven surveyor named Saelis. Dwarven memorial speeches tend toward factuality: lineage, achievements, offices held, major works completed, debts settled, apprentices trained. Saelis instead spoke almost entirely about small things.

He remembered the deceased refusing to wear gloves in winter because he disliked the loss of dexterity. He remembered an argument over bridge foundations that lasted thirty-two years. He remembered a terrible soup served at a field camp in which both men had nevertheless eaten three bowls because neither wished to offend the cook. The Dwarves were very quiet.

Afterwards, the deceased’s eldest daughter approached Saelis and said, “You made him sound like himself.”

Saelis replied, “I had longer to remember him than most of you.” This was true and, under the circumstances, cruel without being cruelly intended.

The daughter looked at him for several seconds and then embraced him. He appeared entirely unprepared for this. Elves have centuries in which to learn social grace, and it does not always help.